“Now, of course, we’ll need to continue monitoring with more tests,” Dr. Lee said gently. “But I’m happy with what I’m seeing so far.”
Remi reached for Bianca’s hand and held it tightly. Zoe covered her mouth, her eyes wide with excitement. Mila slowly unfolded her arms and let them fall to her sides. She released a breath of relief.
“How are you feeling? Are you getting back to some of your normal activities?”
“Yes. Cooking. And I’ve been going on walks.”
“Eating a healthy diet?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Keep it up,” said Dr. Lee. “Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes,” Bianca jumped right in. “Do you think the radiation will get all the cancerous cells?”
Dr. Lee didn’t hesitate. “I can’t say for sure. We’ll continue to monitor and see. Let’s just keep fighting.”
“Fighting is what I know,” Bianca said, her voice steady now.
In the car, Bianca let out a loud scream. It wasn’t to scare anyone. It was the release of pent-up anxiety, uncertainty, fear—all those things that had been holding her captive. Remi screamed with her, just as loud. Then Zoe. When Mila screamed, something inside Bianca broke. She didn’t turn around, didn’t speak. She just stared out the windshield with eyes full of tears. She kept her eyes steady—and a gentle smile crept into the corner of her mouth.
Bianca found Mila in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. She looked up when her mother entered but didn’t speak. Bianca sat down beside her, close. For a while, neither of them said anything.
Mila looked at her. “I’m glad the treatment is working.”
“Me too.”
“I’m still trying to figure everything out, but I don’t want you to be sick.”
“Thank you, baby, that means a lot,” Bianca said. “I know you’re leaving soon, but I want us to at least check in on each other.”
Mila nodded. “Are you going back to New Orleans soon, or will you continue your treatment here.”
“I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“Dad and I are going to visit LSU next week. Since I missed enrollment for fall, I’ll enroll there as a visiting student and then apply for the spring semester in October.” Mila gave a light smile.
“That’s good. You’ll be there with Zoe.”
“Yeah, we’ve been talking about maybe sharing an apartment. She’s going to talk to Aunt Remi and see if that’s a possibility.”
Bianca took a slow breath. The thought of her daughter not staying on campus gave her pause. “Wow, not staying on campus. That’s … that’s something.”
Mila smiled faintly. “I think we can handle it. We’re mature enough.”
Bianca reached out, brushing her fingers gently through Mila’s hair. “Your hair is growing back, I see.”
“I like it. I think I might wear it short for a while. It gives me courage.”
“It’s certainly attractive on you.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
Later that night the house had settled into stillness. She was the only one awake. She’d gone for a walk earlier in the day. Her breathing was better. She was getting back into her groove. The low hum of the refrigerator was the only soundas Bianca stood at the kitchen sink, staring out into the darkness. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped. She wrapped her hands around a mug of chamomile tea, untouched. She felt and enjoyed the warmth of it for a few moments. Then she closed her eyes for a moment and listened to her own breathing—slow, steady. It was way different from the tight, shallow breaths she’d grown used to since her second diagnosis.
Today had been a good day. The good news, laughter, and a moment of connection with Mila she hadn’t dared hope for made all the difference. The fragility of it all pressed softly against her chest. She was grateful.
She walked out onto the sunporch, sat in the cushioned chair, and pulled a throw blanket around her shoulders. The night air was cool. Her gaze lifted to the sky. There was no moon, but the stars were there. They were bright and beautiful, and she started counting them. Then she lifted her head back and whispered into the dark, “Thank you.” Not for everything being perfect—because it certainly wasn’t—but she was thankful for this moment. This breath. This quiet.